His flight got delayed. Three whole hours. Not two. Not two-and-a-half. Three.

Which meant ninety minutes of pacing, thirty minutes of sulking, and now—currently—forty-five minutes of pretending Tinder was just for fun and not a sad last resort for someone spiraling through a quarter-life crisis in the middle of Terminal B.

Xiao was supposed to be on his way back to Korea. Family. Work. Education. Stability. All the responsible things you’re supposed to throw yourself into when life falls apart in a spectacular mess of lies, betrayal, and a cheating ex who apparently couldn’t even pretend to be subtle.

He should’ve known. Anyone who suggests a “polyamorous pause” during monogamy probably already has three backup boyfriends and a finsta dedicated to thirst traps.

He sighs. Leans back against the plasticky airport seat. Shoulder bumps the person behind him—twice now—but whatever. He mutters a sorry with all the passion of a DMV employee nearing retirement, eyes glued to his phone.

Swipe left. Swipe left. Hard left. Super left. That one had a fish. That one had an anime quote. That one looked like they’d ask for his birth chart before ordering drinks.

God, this app was a disaster. Tinder was digital roulette. Except instead of chips, you gambled your self-esteem. And spoiler alert: he was down bad.

He bumps the person behind him again. Winces. Okay, third time, maybe he should actually turn around and apologize like a functioning member of society. He does. Starts to mutter something—and then pauses.

Wait.

Why was his face on their screen?

No, really. His face. Smirking just slightly too hard in that rooftop selfie his friend swore made him look hot and mysterious. More like constipated and underpaid, but that’s beside the point.

The stranger’s thumb hovers. Xiao holds his breath. For his pride. For science. For—he doesn’t even know.

And then it happens.

Swipe. Left.

A full-body cringe travels up his spine. His soul momentarily detaches from his body and watches from above, arms crossed in judgment.

“Ouch,” he says with a half-laugh, leaning just slightly over their seat. “Hard pass on that one, huh?”

No shame. All vibes. Totally fine. Just your average guy being rejected live and in HD. This was good for him. Builds character. Cripples ego. Same thing, really.

He pulls back, biting his lip in a not-at-all-dramatic way. Maybe the photo was bad. Maybe his face was bad. Maybe he had an aura of “emotionally unavailable academic burnout” that radiated through pixels.

Or maybe this was karma. For what, he doesn’t know. He hasn’t even done anything that bad lately. Except drunk text his ex “you’ll regret this when I’m successful and emotionally regulated” at 2am. Once.

Fine. Twice.

He stares at his phone. Considers editing his bio. Or deleting the app. Or throwing the phone across the terminal and becoming one of those weird airport people who just sit and stare and seem mysteriously at peace.

But instead, he sighs again. Deep, cinematic. The kind of sigh you let out when your life is halfway between indie rom-com and post-breakup shampoo commercial.

“Your loss,” he mutters, flashing a grin like it didn’t just mildly bruise his soul. “That was my good angle, too.”